


We're Sitting on a Ruin

by mytimehaspassed



Series: Moon Fever [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia brings Stiles a warm cup of coffee to hold, and Stiles sits at Peter’s kitchen table and thanks her for being so nice, and Lydia rolls her eyes and does this thing where she flips her hair with no effort at all, her bright eyes and Stiles’ pale, translucent skin, and Stiles smiles and thinks that he might be in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Sitting on a Ruin

**WE'RE SITTING ON A RUIN**  
TEEN WOLF  
Derek/Stiles; Lydia/Jackson  
 **WARNINGS** : ghost!AU; (so obviously) main character death  
 **NOTES** : Moon Fever Series

First: [You With Air](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/26839.html)  
Second: [Nothing But Heart](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/27050.html)  
Third: [As We Walk Into the Night](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/27153.html)  
Fourth: [With the Heart of a Child](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/27466.html)  
Fifth: [When it was Dark I Called and You Came](http://andletmestand.livejournal.com/27884.html)

Lydia brings Stiles a warm cup of coffee to hold, and Stiles sits at Peter’s kitchen table and thanks her for being so nice, and Lydia rolls her eyes and does this thing where she flips her hair with no effort at all, her bright eyes and Stiles’ pale, translucent skin, and Stiles smiles and thinks that he might be in love. 

Lydia places her perfectly manicured hands down flat on the table and Stiles watches her pick at the indentations in the wood, the small, imperfect scars of a thousand kitchens before this one, and she sighs and doesn’t say anything, but she watches the door to the living room like she’s waiting for it to open, and Stiles can just hear the low timbre of Derek’s voice on the other side, and then Peter’s voice after that. Stiles knows that this is a conversation that he’s supposed to be a part of, but as soon as he had walked into the house with Jackson on one side of him and a sheepish, uncomfortable Isaac on the other side, Lydia had grabbed him out of their embrace, out of the gaze of Derek and Peter and all the other wolves, and marched him straight into the kitchen. 

She had sat him down and made coffee and told him to be quiet because they were deciding his fate right now and the worst thing he could do would be to speak. 

Stiles shifts the lukewarm cup in his hands and Lydia gets up to make another pot, and Stiles falls even harder. “Does this happen a lot?” He asks, and Lydia doesn’t turn around to answer. 

“What?” She says, and the fabric of her dress stretches tighter around her torso when she reaches for the bag of beans. “A homicidal ghost deciding to join a pack of werewolves? No, not very often.” 

“Ha ha,” Stiles says, but instead of his voice sounding cynical, he just sounds tired. “No, I meant the hushed conversations in the next room thing. Is Peter always this mysterious or is he just like this around me?” 

The machine starts to churn and make noise and Lydia places two hands on the counter, gripping the edge tight, squaring her shoulders. “No,” she says, and then, “He’s always like that.” And then she doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, her body sharp and still. 

“You’re lucky,” she says, and her voice is soft, and Stiles can’t see the look on her face because she hangs her head in front of the coffee pot, and Stiles wants to reach out to touch her, but she’s too far away.

He opens his mouth to ask her what she means, but the door to the kitchen swings open and Peter walks in. “Lydia,” he says, and Stiles watches as Lydia stands at attention, straightening her back at sickening speed, her chin higher than usual. “Thank you for keeping Mr. Stilinski out of trouble, but I believe Jackson is ready to take you home now.” 

Lydia nods and moves through the kitchen door, not even looking back at Stiles once. 

Derek walks into the kitchen just as Peter turns to address Stiles, and Stiles sits up, but Derek brushes past him and goes to stand on the other side of the table, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t meet Stiles’ eyes and he doesn’t say anything and if Stiles were alive he might feel his heart speed up, he might feel his pulse race with fright or apprehension or something equally as confusing. 

“Thank you for waiting so patiently, Stiles,” Peter says, and the smell of the freshly brewed coffee wafts over them and Stiles is still holding his now cold cup, but he’s afraid that if he lets go his hands might start to shake. “Derek and I have reached a decision regarding,” and here Peter pauses, a curl of disdain forming on his mouth, and he moves his hand in the space between Stiles and Derek, “this.”

Stiles looks over at Derek and Derek doesn’t even move, his eyes focused on the floor. 

“I didn’t realize that this was a problem,” Stiles says, and he’s still looking at Derek when Derek looks up, his mouth in a flat, tight line, his face frozen with restraint. Stiles knows that Derek wants to tell him to shut up, but Peter never even gives him a chance. 

“Then I’m afraid you’re not as bright as I once thought,” Peter says. Stiles turns to look at him and Peter is frowning, his whole body rigid. “In my pack, Mr. Stilinski, we have rules. And werewolves like Derek,” and here Peter goes to place a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek is still and silent and there’s something that Stiles can’t name crossing over his face, “are meant to mate with other werewolves. Not humans. And certainly not ghosts.” 

If Stiles were alive, he might feel as if his heart had stopped. 

“Now,” and here Peter smiles, but it’s cold. “I could let you mate with Jackson or Lydia or even Isaac, no other wolves have claimed them yet. But I’m afraid now that Derek has rejoined us, he is no longer available.”

“What?” Stiles chokes out, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek lift a hand, just barely, his fingers reaching out for Stiles, reaching out to tell him to stop, but he can’t, and it’s mostly because his mouth starts to do that thing where it doesn’t wait for his brain to catch up before it starts moving. “What is this, the 1800s? This is ridiculous. You can’t just tell people who they’re supposed to have sex with. They’re human beings.”

Peter laughs, and it sounds terrible and Stiles flinches even though he doesn’t mean to, and Derek is looking at him with this pleading look on his face and Stiles knows that if he doesn’t stop, he will be the first ghost to ever die twice, but something inside of him just won’t stop screaming out for Derek’s touch, and it’s that same part of him that wants to hit Derek for leaving Stiles alone for five months, hit him harder than he’s ever hit anyone, and it’s the same part of him that wants to kiss Derek until Derek can’t even breathe. 

“Well of course they’re not human beings,” Peter says, his voice like steel, and then he laughs one more time, and Stiles feels colder than he has in a very long time. “They’re wolves.”

***

Peter leads Stiles out of the house with a broad palm on the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles wants to turn around and plead, wants to turn around and ask Derek to come home with him, to come back with him, away from Peter and all of Peter’s stupid rules, away from this house and the call of the pack, but he doesn’t, he can’t. 

And Derek doesn’t even say goodbye.

***

It’s not so much that Stiles dreams as he imagines. He hasn’t slept since the night he woke up and realized his house was on fire, but sometimes he can lay still enough that it feels like he’s asleep, and this is where he spends most of his time, in this place where he’s asleep, but not really, in this place where he dreams, but not really. 

He lies on what used to be Derek’s bed, what used to be Derek’s sheets before Derek decided that leaving Stiles was better for him than living here in Stiles’ old, charred house, and he imagines that Derek is here with him, that he’s against Stiles and that Stiles’ skin is on fire, burning up hotter than he’s ever felt it burn before, hot and hotter and even hotter still. He imagines that Derek runs his teeth against Stiles’ ghostly neck, small and blunt and unlike the wolf’s teeth, that Derek’s breath is tickling Stiles’ ear, warm and wet, that Derek lowers his mouth to Stiles’ skin, lowers and kisses and bites and licks, and that Stiles arches and shudders and shakes and feels like lava. 

Stiles bites his lower lip and then slides his hands down to his ghostly belt, and he imagines that its Derek’s fingers undoing the strap and pulling the zipper down his ghostly pants, strong and solid and calloused, that it’s Derek’s fingers slowly, slowly sliding underneath the ghostly fabric, the touch like electricity, and that it’s Derek fingers stroking the skin there, slow and then soft and then slow again. 

Stiles inhales a deep, stuttered breath, and starts to pull harder, starts to pull faster, imagining that it’s Derek’s skin and Derek’s touch and Derek’s hips behind him, rocking him slowly with the movement of Derek’s fingers, and he imagines that he can feel Derek’s mouth on his shoulder again, wet, and he imagines that he can feel the bulk of Derek’s chest against his back, solid and smooth and strong behind him, and Stiles feels like he’s burning and burning and burning, and he makes a sound that seems loud in his ears, makes a sound and imagines that it’s Derek’s voice just by his ear, and he pulls as fast as he can, as hard as he can, and he opens his eyes just as he comes. 

And sees Allison standing there, trying not to laugh. 

***

“I’m sorry,” Allison says, and draws her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and Stiles wants to die. For the second time.

“Allison,” Stiles chokes out, and Allison looks a little older now, a little wiser, but definitely not as old as she should be, having been seventeen in 1963. “What?” he says, and, “How?”

Allison laughs for real this time, and her smile is beautiful, and Stiles tries to slip his hand out of his ghostly pants and pull the ghostly zipper back up as nonchalantly as he possibly can, but he doesn’t miss the way Allison’s eyebrows draw together in some sort of shared embarrassment. “I thought you might still be here,” she says, ignoring his questions, and she walks over to the dresser where one of Derek’s shirts lay, crumpled and forgotten, and picks it up with two of her fingers. “Are you living with a guy?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and then shakes his head. “I mean no. He lives here, I just,” and here he stops, because Allison turns to look at him with a knowing smile, and he really did forget how much he missed her and the way she always knew when he was lying. “I mean it’s complicated right now.” 

“Well,” Allison says, and moves back over to the bed, sitting on the edge. “I have some time. Want to talk about it?” 

“Yes,” Stiles says, breathlessly, and then, “Wait, no. How the fuck are you even here?”

Allison laughs again and says Stiles’ name and Stiles sits up and touches her on the arm just to make sure that she was really there, and Allison shakes him off. “You’re really cold,” she says, by way of explanation, and then she holds up one of her palms to show her solidity. “You’re making sure I’m not a ghost, right?”

“How?” Stiles says again, and Allison twists her head away, and when she brings it back again, her mouth is full of fangs. 

“Ran into some vampires awhile back,” she says. And Stiles’ heart sinks. “They were looking for someone to join them and they didn’t exactly take no for an answer.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire life. 

Allison shrugs. “It was a really long time ago,” she says, and when she smiles, it’s sad. 

“Well,” Stiles says, and he’s trying to lighten the mood, the half-smile on his face and the way he takes her hand in his almost completely solid hand, the way that he draws his shoulders up a little bit, and barely raises his chin, he says, “At least you’re probably one of the only psychic vampires out there. And that’s definitely something you could sell to Anne Rice.”

After a long moment, Allison begins to laugh.


End file.
